The Tempest's Shadow
by Idrelle Miocovani
Summary: Swept into a world fraught with war, magic and political intrigue, Venara Lavellan is determined to use her newfound position as Inquisitor to change the lives of mages and elves for the better. But as her radical choices and growing magical power threaten an already fragile Thedas, even the Inquisition is uncertain whether she will truly save the world or doom it forever.


**A/N:** This story is a labour of love.

I started _The Tempest's Shadow_ about a year and a half ago as a project that expanded on behind-the-scenes moments with my Inquisitor, Venara. Since then, it has grown into a much larger story, just as Venara has grown into a much more distinctive character. I wanted to capture the intrigue and politics of the Inquisition and the threat of Corypheus in a new light, specifically from the perspective of a Dalish Inquisitor. This is not the events of DA:I as you know it. I am changing things up, following the characters on their paths and creating an entirely new story. While some major events might echo significant quests of the game, this is wildly canon-divergent.

The Elven in the text is made up, with reference to in-game Elven and some reference to fan archives like Project Elvhen. Similarly, Qunlat is also created by me with reference to its Dragon Age wiki entry. French is a stand-in for Orlesian, as Spanish is for Antivan.

I am terrible with typos. Even though I do my best to proof-read thoroughly, some always manage to slip through.

Thank you to everyone who read and supported the original story. I hope you enjoy this re-write. As I am balancing multiple projects, I will not be able to post weekly, but I am hoping to get a chapter up at least once a month (or, if I'm lucky, twice a month).

Comments are adored and appreciated-I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**  
 **The Blessing of Mythal**

Green and yellow light streaked across the early evening sky, its path jagged and erratic as it flashed among the clouds. It was no more aberrant, no more unnatural than the day it had appeared two months ago.

Ciaran scowled as he watched its progress. He couldn't shake the lingering feeling of unease that overcame him whenever he looked upwards. And yet, he also could not look away. There was something mesmerizing about that green light. At first, they thought it was a comet, one that had not been seen for hundreds of years. There was much whispered excitement in the clan that day. Was it an omen, foretelling doom? Or was it a message from the gods, one that had escaped the confines of their unearthly prison? But the whispers ceased when Keeper Istimatheoriel uncovered an astrarium and examined it further. The light, she said, was magical in nature, released from a source far to the south. It was nothing to concern the clan.

Lies.

Ciaran had watched as Istimaethoriel and the hahrens gathered in a clearing, night after night, furiously debating the reason behind the light's appearance and the best course of action. Ciaran knew it was against clan law to eavesdrop on a vhellal—some words were for the ears of keepers and hahrens only—but he couldn't help himself. The light was a question and questions needed answers.

Though his ears were keen, he didn't overhear as much as he would like. Istimaethoriel was no fool; she would expect disobedience from the da'vial. She had cast a barrier around the vhellal, muffling their words. Ciaran was reduced to reading their lips, though the shadows cast by the trees masked much of their faces. What he did read lead to more questions. Istimaethoriel spoke of a great disturbance in Ferelden, one on such a grand scale that the ripples were felt even here. And caught in the middle of it was one of their own, Istimaethoriel's First, Venara Isena.

Ciaran knew little about the First's mission. She had simply disappeared one day on an errand of urgency and secrecy, travelling into human lands far away from Clan Lavellan. He had felt a prick of jealousy—why should she go, when someone like him needed a mission of importance to complete his vir himalen? He hadn't spoken very often to Venara, but when he had, she seemed like every other battlemage in Clan Lavellan's ranks: proud and arrogant. Istimaethoriel always favoured mages. They were privy to knowledge kept hidden from hunters and craftsmen and ordinary folk. It went to their heads.

One thing was certain: the First was compromised by this cataclysmic event, turned into some kind of herald by the humans who held her captive, and even Istimaethoriel was uncertain if the clan should rescue her.

Ciaran made his decision. If he was to earn his vallaslin before the season was out, he needed a quest worthy of him and his clan. Rescuing the First, wherever she happened to be, seemed like a choice. He would return to the clan a hero and protector, worthy of the blessing of Mythal herself.

He had left the clan that evening, slipping away in the darkness. He took no halla or hart—the clan's halla keeper would know if one was missing and would send hunters out after him in a heartbeat. It would be a long journey by foot and there would be many dangers to traverse, but he would make it.

He had to.

Ciaran growled as he pushed his way through the dense underbrush of the mountain forest. He had lost count of how many weeks he had travelled. Nor did he quite know where he was, though he refused to admit he was lost. As soon as he had passed the borders of the clan's traditional grounds, the world had become unrecognizable. But he knew one thing for certain: Ferelden was south. All he had to do was keep walking south and he would eventually find the Waking Sea and, beyond that, the First.

He had to be close. He had not seen hide nor hair of a living person since leaving the clan. He felt a small tick of annoyance that Istimaethoriel had sent no hunters after him, but perhaps that meant he had simply evaded them.

The underbrush suddenly gave way and Ciaran yelped as he fell. Branches and thorns scraped his exposed skin as he tumbled forwards down a sharp incline into a clearing. He landed hard on his rear, pain shooting up his spine. Groaning, he brushed his cheek with an open palm, blood staining his skin. Swearing under his breath, Ciaran gingerly got to his feet and looked about.

His eyes widened in amazement.

The clearing wasn't a clearing—it was a ruin. An elven ruin. Beneath the grass were marble tiles, worn and stained. Arches and pillars, cracked with age and covered with ivy, rose to heights that rivalled trees. A set of chipped steps wound their way out of the overgrowth to a gilded dais, the threshold guarded by a set of stone statues in the shape of a robed woman with dragon wings. A large ornate mirror, its dark grey glass shimmering strangely, stood in the centre. Behind the dais was a preserved, golden mural depicting an elven goddess, glowing in the setting sun.

Mythal.

Ciaran exhaled softly, mouth agape. He was in a temple dedicated to Mythal. The very goddess whose vallaslin he wished to receive.

He had seen ruins before, but nothing quite like this. He had never visited any sanctified places when travelling with the clan; such ruins were for keepers and hahrens only. Ciaran's eyes darted to the mirror as he slowly walked towards the steps. It was majestic, beautifully crafted and positioned in a place of great authority. It had to have held some kind of importance to the ancient elves, but Ciaran could not fathom what.

It wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, would it? After all, who knew if he would ever be able to find this place again. He was probably the only person to visit it in thousands of years.

Ciaran placed a foot on the first step, hand resting cautiously on the banister, the blood on his palm sticking to the weathered marble. He took another step.

The mirror burst open with light and sound.

Ciaran dove off the steps and throwing himself into the nearby overgrowth. From his hiding place, he watched in shock as blue light transformed the mirror's glass, spiralling and pulsating with magic. A shadow appeared deep within the light, growing larger and larger until it took the form of a person. Moments later, a woman stepped out of the mirror, swathed in blue light.

She was clothed in black scouting clothing, a hood drawn over her head and a dark scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth. A set of glittering daggers swung from her hips and a pack was slung around her shoulders. Despite being unable to see her ears, Ciaran guessed she was elven. Her feet were bare and she made little noise as she moved. She passed a hand in front of the mirror and the blue light faded, its surface becoming glass once more. The scout clasped her hands behind her back and waited, chin tilted upwards, her eyes on the sky.

Ciaran barely dared to breathe.

An ear-piercing shriek shattered the sky. Ciaran slammed his hands around his ears, his heart thundering in his chest. A shadow passed in front of the sun, plunging the ruin into darkness as a gust of sudden wind blew through the clearing. The scout on the dais was unmoved, more stonelike than the statues surrounding her. The terrifying call resounded again and Ciaran's jaw dropped as a dragon circled down from the sky, landing mere feet away from him. Its tail lashed out, passing through the overgrowth and missing him by inches. Ciaran pushed himself out of the way, falling backwards into a dark corner between two arches.

The scout nodded to the dragon.

The dragon lowered its head, its form shimmering with magic, dissolving in a burst of white light. Ciaran's eyes widened as the dragon transformed into a woman. A human woman. Though considering she had just transformed from a dragon, he doubted how human she was.

She was tall and old, majesty clinging to her like a scent. Her robes were constructed leather, dyed a deep burgendy, and adorned with ravens' feathers. Her white hair was pulled back from her face, crowned with a silver diadem. Her yellow eyes pierced everything she looked at and there was an ancient elegance to her movements. Whoever this woman was, she radiated power of kind Ciaran could not fathom.

"Did you find it?" the woman asked.

The scout bowed. "Yes."

"And my grandson?"

"Still at the Orlesian court. With his mother, madam."

The dragon woman laughed, harsh and coarse. "Don't bother calling me such things. I am no more a 'madam' than you are a countess."

The scout nodded.

"Enough of that. Let us continue. Hand it to me."

The woman held out a gauntleted hand, fingers spread wide. Ciaran couldn't help but think they resembled dragon claws. He watched as the scout slipped the sack off her shoulder and pulled out an object from within. It was wrapped in black cloth and she carefully unwound it, tossing it away.

Ciaran frowned. The cloth had protected an orb, large and black and glossy, with circular marks carved around its surface. The scout placed the orb reverently into the dragon woman's hand. It sparked, green light glowing deep within. Ciaran leaned forwards, peering through the overgrowth for a better look.

The woman's head jerked to the side, her yellow eyes staring directly at Ciaran's hiding place. "I'm surprised, Mithari," she said. "I expected better from you."

"…madam?" The scout sounded nervous.

"We are not alone," the woman said, indicating Ciaran's bloody handprint on the banister. She turned and strode directly into the overgrowth by the arches.

Ciaran backed up, but his back pressed against cold stone and there was nowhere else to go. A shadow loomed over him and he looked up directly into the dragon woman's yellow eyes.

"One of the elvhen, I see," the woman said. "Far from his clan. Separated, perhaps. Who knows the story? Better yet, who cares for it?" She chuckled. "Come out, boy, there is nothing to fear."

Ciaran slowly got to his feet. "Who are you?" he asked.

"A fair question," the woman said. "There's one better yet—who are we all?" She glanced at him, taking in his bare face. "Where are you from, boy? Come on. Speak. Mithari won't bite."

The scout lowered her eyes.

"I make no promises for myself," the woman added, chuckling still, her laughter maddening.

Ciaran wanted to run, to get away from this ruin and this strange mage as fast as possible, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Whether it was from fear or magic, he could not tell.

"Clan Lavellan," he mumbled.

"That is some distance, yes," the woman said. "Why have you come here, so close to Kirkwall?"

So he had made it to the Waking Sea. Almost.

Ciaran stared at the ground. "I'm going to Ferelden. To find someone. Rescue her."

"I see. And is this person so unimportant that your clan would willingly let an untested youth attempt a rescue?"

" _I_ chose to go," Ciaran snapped, finding strength from his aggravation at being called an _untested youth._ "Of my own volition. The hahrens had no part in it."

"Brave boy," the woman said. "It takes boldness to defy your elders and brave the wilds. But in doing so, you must accept the follies that come with such a decision. The wilds are kind to very few."

She gently touched the side of Ciaran's face. Though it was an oddly motherly gesture, her guanteled hand burned. Ciaran inhaled sharply and backed away. He glanced at the sky and saw the glimmer of green light. His stomach twisted.

 _Mythal will protect me,_ he thought. _She will keep me from harm._

"What is happening now in Ferelden will alter the course of history," the woman said, her fingers tightening around the orb. Its magic pulsated within its dark surface. "The world is about to change, a change a long time in the making. How unfortunate you will not live to see it."

Ciaran's mouth went dry. "What?"

The woman swept away up the stairs, illuminated by the orb's glow. "You bore witness to an exchange of which no one should know," she said. "It was by no fault of your own. You were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time." She reached the dais and ran a hand along the mirror's edge. "But secrecy is more important than a single soul, even if that soul is of the people. I will return your body to your clan for burial. Take comfort in that."

Despite his shaking limbs, Ciaran tore himself from the ruin and ran, sprinting for the forest. He would not die in this temple. He would not let this mad woman kill him.

Light burst behind him and he heard the terrible creature's roar. He heard the powerful flap of wings, the thud a heavy, scaly tail on the ground. He didn't dare look back. He kept running, sweat dripping from his forehead, heart pounding in his throat, bile in his mouth. He was almost at the clearing's edge.

The dragon tail hit him squarely in the back.

Ciaran flew through the air, crashed into a tree and slumped down into the dirt, bones crushed. Bright spots flooded his vision as mind-numbing pain flooded his senses. He couldn't move couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't think. He heard the dragon moving through the ruin, its foodsteps cracking like thunder.

He was dying.

He blinked, his vision woozy, and saw the black-clad scout activate the mirror. As she disappeared into the hazy blue glow, Ciaran wondered where she was going and what lay in the realm beyond.

His eyelids flickered.

He had failed. Who was going to rescue the First now? She would remain with the humans forever, no longer Dalish…

Cold, sharp claws wrapped around his broken body. Ciaran felt the vague sensation of being lifted into the air, a cool breeze blowing against his cheeks.

The woman was true to her word. She was taking him home, to kin and clan…

 _Home…_

A small smile crossed Ciaran's face as the thunderous flap of dragon's wings sung him into darkness.

* * *

 **ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES**  
 **Vhellal** \- Council or meeting of significant important, one for Keepers and hahrens only  
 **Da'vial** \- Youth  
 **Vir himalen** \- "the path of growth"/"the path of coming of age". Ritual quest the youth of Clan Lavellan must complete in order to prove they are ready for adulthood and gain their vallaslin


End file.
